HD 'There's This Thing'
by tigersilver
Summary: Proposal fluff for nursedarry's birthday!


HD 'There's This Thing'

Author: **tigersilver**

Pairing: H/D

Rating: PG-13

WC: 2, 467

Warnings/Summary: Proposal fluff for **nursedarry***'s birthday! Kisses from Tiger, love.

"Um." Draco's got a box in his pocket. It weighs about a billion stone for such a small box and he's been dragging it along to every occasion, searching for the right one. Mayhap this is it? "Harry?"

"Yes?" Harry's got a new set of robes to wear to the Ministry function. It's a function they are forced to attend, as they always are, and one that Draco enjoys attending, as he always does, and Harry—emphatically—does not. Harry prefers supper at the Weasleys or quiet dinners on their own. Draco is happy enough with those, yes, but they don't offer the same degree of satisfaction. Draco's a bit of a show-off, to tell the truth, and he adores to rub in the face of the world Harry's his.

"Need that freshened up?" Draco gestures at Harry's glass which is half-empty and cocks a helpful brow. He'd like to impress Harry with his care, of course, because careful lovers are the sort Harry keeps. It rather enraged Draco recently to discover that Harry hadn't had many of that sort previously. It also pleased him: less competition. "Champagne, was it?"

The box may as well be made of hot lead. It's likely to burn a hole through his breast pocket; Draco would like to offload it sooner rather than later and complete the process of his investment. Harry, for his part, shrugs and smiles, completely unaware of Draco's agenda.

"No, I'm all right. It's fine," he murmurs. On the podium before them all, captive at their cramped little bistro tables, Shacklebolt speaks, his voice chocolate and sonorous both. Neither Harry nor Draco listen. "Plenty left. Half full."

Draco also shrugs. Therein lays the essential difference between he and Harry: one glass, two perceptions. He prefers to think of the glass as half-emptied and in need of filling, Harry sees it as half-full. Draco enjoys Harry's optimism, no mistake, but he chooses being careful and never running out over being careless and risking the maybe, every time.

Which leads him again to the box, the opportunity presented by the function and Harry's smile. Draco would be happy to keep that smile in his life for years to come. To ensure it. It only requires a bit of semi-privacy to accomplish and that he can arrange.

"Breath of fresh air, then?" he suggests, laying a discreet hand upon Harry's nape. Urging him along, as he urged Harry into his flat, his bed and his life. Harry, delightfully, had come to all three willingly enough. "Come on, then. Bring that with, will you? We can stroll."

"Ah…alright," Harry complies happily enough. They rise from their tiny table and make their way out discreetly through a side door, one that opens onto the atrium. "Sure."

The atrium's home of the enormous fail of a replacement statue and Draco sneers at its bulk from habit. It's ugly but it's also central and can be seen from the ballroom, through the sets of French doors, should anyone choose to look their way. He places his hand over the box tucked away as they walk, Harry with eyes forward, nodding and smiling politely to other Ministry types, Draco abstracted but at the same time aware of every molecule in Harry's body.

"Well," Harry sighs when they arrive and stand, staring down at the circular pool which surrounds the incredibly fugly monument. "Here we are," he adds pointlessly. "Er."

"Yes," Draco, coming to with a start, realizes he needs to be getting on with it, his mission. They're in full view of the world, here, and he wants witnesses to his action, mainly so Harry won't change his mind and back out later. Also because he knows Harry's decent and unlikely to humiliate him before so many. Lastly because his stomach is doing somersaults and actively contemplating fleeing his body altogether. And the box weighs a tonne or more and he needs—no, requires—to be rid of the damned thing before it squashes his chest cavity flat. "We are. Which leads me to a question, Harry—"

"I wanted to ask you. Um. Something." Harry is very occasionally a bit rude. He'll jump into situations heedlessly at times, not thinking of the consequences. Draco's prided himself on being the voice of reason and exerting his influence somewhat, all in an effort to contain his rapid-fire mate. Er, lover. "Now we're here, see…" He says this, with his hand in his one pocket, but he doesn't continue, only trailing off to a nearly inaudible 'Hem…"

"_What_?" Draco, stymied _again_, snaps back. His palm is burning where it lays, as is all of him. The atrium is hot and humid with the breath of a thousand Witches and Wizards contained in the ballroom behind them; he can barely think clearly beyond what he needs to accomplish as it is. "What, Harry?" But he corrals his impatience anyway, as he rather feels Harry needs to be listened to, even when he's off on a tangent or blurting foolishness out of that lovely mouth. Draco believes Harry should always be heard and he's the best person to hear him. "What's on?"

He drops his hand casually enough for the moment, setting his wishes aside.

"I would like." Harry tilts his chin, flails an arm and rather absentmindedly places his glass on the stone lip of the pool with the other hand. It trembles; Draco notes Harry's fingers are, as well, and wonders briefly _why_. "I would really very much _like_," he repeats, emphatically, and Draco sends a 'stand-still' charm at the glass where it's balanced precariously, and leans full-body into a _listening_ attitude, drawing all that much nearer his companion as he does so. He broadcasts attentiveness, his always-gift to Harry. "To ask you—to ask _you_. If." Harry chokes into silence.

"Yes?"

All of Draco feels poised, including by extension his precious box. There's something momentous going on here. Harry's got that look to him, as if the world's been turned inside out, and he has to let everyone know about it. His thick dark brows beetle, his scarred forehead crinkles, he shoves his specs up his adorably kissable nose. Draco, not quite breathing, is practically atop him all at once, the tips of their polished dress shoes butting together, scraping soles, hand rising to clutch at Harry's elbow. He'd be willing to go much farther to be close to Harry but they are, after all, in public.

"Harry?" he prompts. Waits, with bated breath, for results.

Only to be disappointed. Harry stands down, where he'd been just literally rising up, eagerly balanced on toe tip. He heaves a gusty sigh and points his chin away, his gaze going off to some other place not directed at Draco, and Draco is seized with a monumental sense of frustration. He always tries so hard, so intently, to listen when Harry speaks, to decipher all Harry might be relating to him, with words or no. And this time he can only sense an overwhelming feeling of dispirited disappointment from his love. Harry's sad, or maybe angry, he doesn't know which for certain, but the poor little git is absolutely unhappy. That's the last thing Draco can bear. He does _not_ want Harry not being happy, not tonight. He'll do everything in his power to prevent it.

"May I?" he ventures, solicitously, edging closer. "Please." The hand on the elbow is matched by the careful alighting of his box-burnt palm (the startling heat of his cursed box seems to linger) on Harry's opposing shoulder, right up by the join of his neck to his collarbone, where Draco can trace his fingertips should he wish. He so wishes, and does so, coaxing Harry's gaze back 'round to meet his own with a nudge of a long thumb. Narrows his eyes, squinting down in an agony of helpless need to provide succour. "May I be of assistance? In any way, Harry?"

Because he'd like to, very much. Help his Harry. Assist, aide, support, in whatever endeavour Harry has at hand. This sweet and gentle feeling, this comforting feeling, this belonging they've found together, in each other's company, is essential as drawing in air, at least for Draco. Harry provides it to him simply by existing nearby, in tandem and within reach, and as soon as Draco realized where it came from, the feeling, he'd obtained the fateful box. And carried it about on his person for all the months since. Really, he doesn't think he's wrong to hope; it's just a matter of finding the appropriate moment.

"Please?" Draco begs sweetly and not at all hesitantly, and loves the way Harry's eyes light from within. The way the irritable, vaguely out-of-sorts lines on his very dear features fade away when Harry hears just the tenor of Draco's willing voice. So responsive, always. Draco can't help but love that about Harry. "Just say. Just ask. Anything you want."

"Um." Harry flushes but he never flicks his eyes away from Draco's, never breaks the connection no matter how pink he turns. He does, however, stick a hand back in one of his pockets, fumbling about nervously. "I would like you to. Er. Very much." Draco watches, fascinated, as Harry struggles visibly, gulping, parting his lips and then closing them, chewing carelessly on a ragged corner. "You to."

"Harry, you aren't daring—" Draco begins, mildly affronted, because what's in Harry's hand is a bloody box. Another. And it's under Draco's nose now; he's going cross-eyed staring at it and Harry's gone puce and panting, but he's still wrestling broken phrases out into the open air like a bullheaded mule. Appears to have finally grasped at his missing verbs. Except they're rubbish to the ear:

"Be-mi-marry-me?"

Draco frowns, confused. He could've sworn Harry just asked—well, more burst out with-a stream of gibberish that sounded remarkably lke 'Beemereee!' and that makes no sense.

"What?" Feeling slightly put upon, because _box_, Draco draws Harry gently and fully into his arms, so Harry's box ends up squashed painfully against the top of his breastbone, right where the vulnerable hollow lays at the base of his throat. "Ow! Fuck! Harry?" Harry's white-knuckled fist isn't doing much to shield Draco's exposed skin—very thin there—from the box's rounded, velveteen-covered but still painfully blunt edges. "Harry," he pleads when the man only gapes up at him, adorably speechless and coloured all manner of reds, pales and pinks. "Harry, talk to me, Harry. In English, please. Er, 'bee-mer-ree'; what might that mean?"

Draco has the suspicion he's just been upstaged. _His_ box, if it were sentient, would surely be sulking in the deepest darkest depths of his pocket, also affronted. It's not. What it is doing is nudging itself towards its fellow, as Draco had his tucked away for extremely easy access and that means in reality the two boxes aren't separated by much more than a clenched Harry-hand and some cloth and a whole slew of tense muscles under the fine fabrics they both wear.

"I love you. Draco." It is immensely refreshing when Harry does abruptly regain the power of speech, as what he gabbles out, hot breath sweetened with French champagne, is exactly what Draco's been longing to hear. Draco, truly, could not have phrased it better himself.

"I love you, too." It's automatic, that, and Draco can't help but grin at how quickly he responds to Harry's confession and how very relieved he is to have it floating free in the scant inch of space between their mouths. He's been wanting to _say_ those particular words for a while now. It's brilliant Harry's said them to him; feels like _winning_. "Have for ages. Now, love. What's a _bee-mer-reee_? Explain to me. Is it Muggle?"

Harry laughs, tilting his head back on its stem like a noddy flower, randy with dew, and his fist relaxes sufficiently so that _his_ box just rests against Draco's heaving chest. He laughs until he's gurgling and Draco's chuckling along, helpless but happy to be a part of it, and the very occasional passing fellow Ministry guest sends them a puzzled stare or three as they go by at a distance. Thankfully Shacklebolt's still booming in the background and the very few other people about are all but racing politely to and from the loos, eager not to miss a word of accented oratory out of respect for the Minister.

They have, for all intents and purposes, their privacy. Finally. Draco gives up on this odd word Harry's invented out of whole cloth as a bad job all around; something not to be understood by mere mortals such as he. It has struck him quite strongly between one chuckle and the next that he dragged his companion out of the ballroom for a damned good reason—a pressing one, one that cannot wait—and now is the best moment ever. The box in his pocket seems to quiver in eager agreement. The box against his unbuttoned collarpoints vibrates in ready sympathy. Both are very, very hot to the touch, being magically charged.

"Marry me, please? Harry?" Draco squeaks the 'please' bit, though he'd like to believe he didn't. "Stay with me, be mine, Harry." There's a thousand more eloquent ways to ask a man to stay forever, to advise him of the love one holds for him, to plead with him not to go, or abandon one. To speak of _family_ and _fate_ and _meant to be_ and how the champagne glass, nearly forgotten, is appropriate for celebrations of this sort of forever-_ever_ connection. Draco says none of that; he says instead:

"I love you. Harry." His voice is thankfully finished with the breaking-up and cracking mid-syllable; it's deep and it's sure and he thinks the whole of his heart is lodged in his throat, summoned there by Harry's little box. The one that matches his own box, down to the script in flowing quill and the velvet coloured red as bleeding hearts—and the blasted _heat_, which pulses magically out of the both of them. "_Marry me_."

"Marry," Harry gasps, still laughing, "_me_." He presses a hot-fast-flash of a kiss right on Draco's chin, nipping it teasingly, fondly. Taps his box against Draco's elegant cowl of bones impatiently. "I," he giggles, drawing back barely enough to peep upwards, given how tight Draco's holding him, "asked _you_ first."

"Fine," Draco growls. "Yes, yes, I will," he snarls, and kisses Harry like he's been wanting to since they arrived at this Merlin-forsaken event, long and deep and twisty-tongued. As if he's plumbing the depths, sounding out Harry's love for him, the clasp of their two souls, joined even without ludicrously impatient metal symbols and silly halting words humid-slurred in a deserted echoing space. "Gladly." He sighs and he winks down at Harry when he's at last ready to allow him up for air. "Provided."

"…Provided?"

"You plop yourself down on your knees right with me," Draco snaps. "Right now, doing this rogether. Usurping idiot. _I've_ been planning this—"

"So've _I_!"

"For simply months now and _you_ have to go and ruin_ my_ moment, barging in—"

"Me, too!"

"And having the temerity to ask me before I could even—no! I must know, Harry; what the hell is _bee-mer-ree_ anyway? That doesn't _count_! It's not even a _word_, Harry. I was first."

"No, you weren't."

"Piss off. I was."

"No, _me_, git. And you! You piss off!"

"Oh, shut it—"

"-and kiss me—" Harry finishes his sentence for him. Which is really just par for the course they've sailed so far. To mix Muggle metaphors, but who cares for that? Not he!

No, Draco _is_ infuriated…not. He's appalled Potter's beaten him to it _again_, more like. NOT. He's so bloody high he's flying and Harry's his and will be. _Harry's the same way_, he thinks happily, and they give up on the useless speaking and have at the useful snogging by mutual and unspoken decision, tabling the incipient tiff till later.

"_Yes_, Draco," his Harry whispers. "Yes, _please_."

Much later. Because the boxes are sizzling where they rest, the rings practically banging their way out of them, and if Draco was impatient before, it's nothing compared to his eagerness now—or Harry's.

_Love is_, Draco muses later, when they are returned to the table and fending off a sea of ring-admirers and the looming beneficent mass that is Shacklebolt, _both a mystery and a great enormous cosmic joke, really_. On him, on Harry, on everyone's expectations, and especially on the slit-nosed evil his Harry vanquished. Love, Draco is positive, will out. No matter what or how, it will out. And he, for one, is happy to be alive and laughing. It's the best form of revenge, ever.


End file.
